Suddenly like a bank of fog you’re on a pebble beach masturbating a great white whale fluke dog cock of smoke and the Bering Strait and it’s a sit down wedding reception but oh no Paris Hilton is there on the guest list and you’re seated at her table but she’s come in fancy dress as Jane Roe from Roe vs Wade, which sends entirely the wrong message.
And I’ve lost my place in the book I was reading.
coolness = 10( (number of X chromosomes * 2) - 3) ^ gothness
Here’s a thought that struck me the other day. What do the good citizens of Gotham City do on clear nights*? Does crime run rampant across town, or do the criminals take the night off, too?
* because they can’t beam the bat signal onto the clouds, can they?
I just went looking for free MP3s of “Land of Hope of Glory”, “Jerusalem” and “I Vow To Thee My Country” online, and the best I could come up with was an - admittedly reasonable - rendition of “Jerusalem” recorded by a girls’ school choir from America.
Where did England go? Admittedly I left, but that was because I couldn’t fucking stand living there any more.
And that’s why we didn’t win the World Cup.
Sometimes I sit on the sofa and pretend that there is a large and luxuriant potted fern in the corner of the living room.
There isn’t of course. The only thing potted around here is the shrimp.
And mother’s head.
It was 3am and the clubs were empty. In the Goat’s Head the landlord was bedding down for the night, but there was a rumbling in his belly that would not let him sleep comfortably.
Indigestion? A bout of food poisoning from the 13 Bay D’Espoire oysters he’d consumed that night on an extravagant binge of shellfish?
Or was it, perhaps, the knowledge that he had, knowingly, with malice and in full control of his faculties, brutally slain his wife of a dozen years and encased her remains in a real ale cask in the cellar?
A loud and violent fart confirmed it was just indigestion after all.
you bum too flappy?
you do big crappy?
try lemon juice if you too loose
it very tarty
it stop you farty
Old Flopsy Wopsy, mortua est. Flopsy nibbles on a lettuce. Flopsy nibbles on a carrot (his favourite!) Flopsy done a poo on the berber carpet in the kitchen - naughty Flopsy! White as the snow, red eyed as the dawn, Flopsy bedded down in straw, close and latch the hutch’s door.
Dead rabbit. Dead bunny. Shrouded in sack-cloth and thrown in the canal.
This was truly an enormous bagel. Truly, truly enormous. If it was any more enormous the very definition of enormity would have to be redefined to scale back the previous definition in order to emphasize the relative disparity in size between this bagel and something that would have previously been defined as “enormous”. That’s how enormous it was. Pretty fucking enormous.
And cinnamon raisin, too.
